


Will Soon Be Levied

by Rubynye



Series: Works in StoatSandwich's 4F Universe (aka, the Adventures of Steve Rogers, Military Prostitute) [6]
Category: Will Soon Be Levied
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Past Sexual Assault, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Wartime, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4592874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Auxiliary First Class Steve Rogers carries out a mission to rescue captives from Hydra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will Soon Be Levied

**Author's Note:**

> This story includes a frank, though non-explicit, discussion of sexual assault, between two survivors. It also features mentions of Agent Carter and Lt. Coleman Harris, which seemed worth noting but hard to tag. :)

( _October 1944_ )

Sometimes Steve wonders if any other auxiliaries have a body count. He considers the question as he hugs the facility wall, shuffling quietly through the shadows. Blood's drying under his fingernails and he's never gonna forget that guard's last hollow wheeze, but, Steve reminds himself, he's at war, and if he pulls this off he'll help save a lot more lives than the one he just took.

This wing of the factory is so pin-drop quiet Steve can almost hear the ticking countdown in his head, the timeframe Sergeant Barnes laid out before the Howling Commandos set out on tonight's raid. On the far side there's a firefight, Steve knows, hoping with all his heart his guys come through with no casualties. Dernier's waiting with a pocketful of explosives and manic glee in his eyes, and inside a half hour the building's coming down.

So, everyone needs to be outside first, and that's where Steve comes in, a 1911 at his hip, his pockets full of candies and tricks, and his heart racing a mile a minute. It's too dark for the map but he checks his compass, delight flickering at the sight of Agent Peggy's newsprint picture tucked into the case, and remembers the directions and the guys' descriptions of their time as Hydra's prisoners. Two left turns, hugging the wall, a quick dash across to make a right, and --

\-- and he hears it, the soft whisper of high-pitched human voices. a faint anchoring of baritone notes. People murmuring, sobbing, singing quiet lullabies. Steve carefully follows the voices until the hallway opens out. Or rather, the space around it does, the hallway itself becoming a walkway overlooking six large cages.

Four are full of people, huddled together in mounds of cloth, the scent of unwashed bodies drifting up on the cool air. Steve looks down and swears inside his head: he came in a level above where he meant. The quickest way down is to jump.

The loudest way down is to jump, and if he lands wrong he'll be worse than useless to the people below him. Thinking a quick wordless prayer to any and all saints who might be listening, Steve grips the railing and pulls himself up, swings a leg then the other, precariously balancing his narrow ass on the narrow metal curve. He looks down at the cage below him, at the huddled people who haven't noticed him yet, and carefully tips forward into his jump.

He misses his feet entirely, landing on his knees and cheek with a horrible clang; the impacts knock the air out of him, the people below gasp and gabble in high scared voices. Steve grips the bars under his palms and puffs through the first sharp throbbing, feeling like he's been punched in the face and his knees spiked. Flickers and flares clear from under his eyelids soon enough, and he looks down to see frightened faces staring up at him. 

Smooth, small faces. Everyone in this cage is a child. Several of them are crying.

Steve needs to move. He shuffles back on his aching knees to the edge beneath the walkway, grabs it and climbs the pole down to the ground, muttering, "Shh, shh," the whole time. He drops to his feet and bangs his cheek again -- he's gonna have a glorious bruise -- and murmurs as he gropes in his pocket, "Ich bin ein Amerikaner, ich bin hier, Sie freizugeben." 

Some of the children start to scowl, but others smile, and he runs through all the phrases Gabe told him, "Jestem Amerykaninem , jestem tutaj , zwolnieniu," which causes a general murmur, and, "Je suis un Américain, je suis ici pour vous libérer," where he at least knows what he's saying by more than rote. He finds the gadget he needs, the one to destructively open a lock, and motions the kids back as he slaps it on. A sizzle and a dull red glow, and the door creaks open. The kids cheer, rushing out around Steve, wrapping their arms around his waist before they run past him to the other cages, and theres no more point in quiet anyway. Speed's what they need now. 

Steve hurries to the next cage, full of men who burst out in a tide of shoulder-claps and hand-squeezes and thanks in a half dozen languages, and then across to another cage of children and lastly the women. They rush out in a dizzying swirl of femininity, kissing him all over his cheeks and even several times on his mouth, buffeting him with gratitude until he can only stammer directions in English and French, hoping they understand how to get out of here. Not that anyone's bothering at the moment, the narrow passageway full of people rushing to each other, lifting the littler children, weeping and hugging. They need to move, Steve knows, but for just a second he smiles as he watches the reunions. For just a moment.

Next moment, something pale catches the corner of his eye, a ragged flutter of light and dark. He turns back to the children's cage and sees a girl, arms wrapped around her knees, sitting on the floor in a back corner. At first he thinks she might be injured, maybe wounded, unable to walk; then she glances up at him, shudders and curls up tighter, burying her face in her arms, and he knows that posture down to his bones. He's seen people curled up tight like that before. He's done it himself.

Steve checks the countdown in the back of his head, then crosses the cage and sits beside the girl, despite his sore knees and the tightening timeframe. "Hey," he says neutrally as he can, "We need to get out of here," he adds, hoping he won't have to do this in French, or with gestures.

"Go without me," she replies, accented but clear, if muffled by her arms around her head. 

Steve doesn't budge. He counts off thirty seconds, listening to the freed prisoners shuffling away, and says, "C'mon. My orders are to get everyone out. That includes you."

"Just leave me. I am --" her piping voice cracks a little. "Fouled," she finally chooses.

"Your English is very fair," Steve counters, and wins a delicate snort. 

He counts off only twenty-two seconds this time before she tries again. "Go, soldier. Save my people. I am not worth it."

"Sure you are." Steve keeps sitting there. He's not leaving this girl.

Especially not when she tosses up her head, glaring at him from sore-rimmed eyes. Angry's a good sign. "Not after the Hydra, they made me their plaything," she throws at Steve, like she thinks it'll shock him, disgust him, get him to leave.

Actually, seems like he's the perfect guy to come get her. "Know what I am?" he asks.

She shakes her head, confused, dark wisps tumbling from her messy braid. "American soldier?"

"Nope." He shows her his tabs. "American pro boy. I mean, a prophylactic --" her forehead creases in confusion. "A camp follower," he amends, hoping he won't have to resort to a more indecent phrasing.

Her eyes go round, her mouth goes round, she gets it. Steve can feel the blush across his face already, the heightened ache in his bruised cheek. He squares his shoulders and goes on, even though now he's looking at his hands, fingers interleaved, at the striped shadow the cage casts across the floor. "And one day some Hydra goons looted my camp. They captured me. I mean, they took me as loot. So, yeah, I know -- they made me their plaything too."

Six words and a thousand bad memories, their hands and their laughter and all that pain. He loses track of the seconds then, but after a little while he blinks back to the present, and when he looks over she's nodding, looking down at her knees but with her head still up. "How did you get free?"

Steve holds onto the sound of her soft curious voice. "I waited. When they -- after, when they dropped their guard, I got hold of a weapon. I killed them. And then I got up and kept going."

Steve's fingers ache towards fists, but he shakes them out, makes them hang. He's trying to encourage her, not scare her. Even if right now he can't look at her. "Like that?" she asks softer than ever. "So easy?"

He shakes his head, barking a harsh laugh. "I'd be lying if I said yes," he tells her honestly, and remembers why he let himself remember, makes himself look at her again. Her eyes are huge, her bruised mouth trembling, the hope in her face sweetly hurts his heart. "It's not easy." He thinks of the nightmares Bucky's gently woken him from, the times his whole body wants to curl into a knot and every touch feels like a welt, when he's had to stop a minute and grab a few steadying breaths before he can smile shakily at whomever he's with and get back to it. His guys just let it go, even DumDum doesn't tease him about this. They understand. Everyone has their scars. "But it's worth it to keep on fighting. That's how you win."

"I am no soldier," she says, eyes downcast. "I could only beg them to stop, instead they laughed."

"They laughed at me too," he tells her, and she looks up at him again. "But they didn't when I killed them. They won't laugh when we blow this place sky-high... and I kinda want to be outside when that happens. Will you come with me?"

She nods, conviction tiny on her mouth and huge in her eyes, and she's so pretty, dirt and bruises and all. Steve wants to draw her, but first they need to survive. He gives her his arm, helps her up and walks her from the cage like he's escorting a date, and points her up the left corridor. "Take the second right and you'll find the unlocked door."

"Where are you to?" she asks, still holding his arm.

"Taking a look at what they're putting together," he says, and she nods again, and lets go. It's a little outside his orders, but the captives are safely freed and maybe he can learn something useful. Maybe his Sergeant will approve of his initiative. That's what got him this far, right?

So thinking, Steve doubles back, remembering the facility maps, planning out the best route. The corridor soon drops away, an indoor cliff over a wide open space, the railing punctuated by a long rickety stairwell leading down to the production floor. Steve peers over the railing, trying to take in the dim boxy shapes of vehicles and crates, trying to absorb an image that makes enough sense to reproduce later.

Heavy footsteps echo. Steve spins away from the railing to see another Hydra guard, bareheaded with bared teeth, charging at him. He dodges sideways, raising his pistol, but his shot goes wide and the squid's inside his guard, gripping his wrist, shoving him back. Steve grunts and pushes as hard as he can, already guessing his opponent's plan -- drive him back to the railing, pitch him over into a several-story drop -- but the squid's got height and weight on him, puffing hot in Steve's face as he shoves and Steve stumbles, a step backwards, two, three. The railing bangs into his shoulders, the squid wrings his wrist and his pistol falls, clanging far below, Steve punches desperately and gets blocked, knocked back on his heel, and he'll be damned if his last sight in this life is some leering Hydra squid --

A pale flutter and a feminine grunt and the squid rears back yelling, flinging an arm behind him, knocking a girl backwards into view. She falls in a splash of skirts and the squid whips around growling, letting go of Steve's wrist to clutch at his head, 

That's all Steve needs. He shoves his hand in his pocket, ignoring his throbbing wrist and tingling fingers to grip the silent buzzer. Fumbling it around as he lifts it, making sure the prongs face outward, Steve squeezes its sides to activate and slams it into the back of the squid's neck, the strip of bare skin between collar and hairline. 

The squid's scream echoes off the ceiling as he buckles and collapses. The girl's already on her feet -- she's the one Steve coaxed out of the cage, her pretty face seamed and set and looking twenty years older, and she's got a pipe in her two-handed grip. She swings it high, snarling as she brings it thudding down on the squid's head and his whole body convulses. She grunts and does it again, a thicker thump as drops fly. Once more as she shrieks in savage delight, and Steve's definitely drawing this when he has the chance, every fierce line of her beating the squid's head in.

But the clock's ticking, and the squid's groaning, flailing his arms towards her, and they don't have time. Steve fills his chest and says a firm, "Stop," the way his Sergeant would, and the girl freezes, panting, staring up with round eyes, her arms upraised and the pipe dripping and little dark spots speckling her hands and wrists. Steve almost gets lost in staring back, his own chest shuddering.

Instead he reaches into his vest and finds Lt. Harris's gift, the tiny single-shot Liberator pistol, waves her back as he leans in from the side, and fits its barrel behind the groaning squid's ear. One squeeze, one shot, and their enemy slumps with a final sigh, twitching into stillness, nothing now but a splayed corpse. 

Steve drops the gun from blood-slick fingers. The girl's turning away, he doesn't blame her -- but she's reaching to the floor, pulling up her stain-dappled shawl. She reaches out for Steve's hands and he lifts his to meet hers, wiping her hands in her shawl, letting her wipe his. As she scrubs his hands her quivering smooths to quiet, her shoulders relax, her breathing evens out; as he rubs spatters from her wrists he looks up at her intent face, and fighter to fighter, he tells her, "I'm Steve."

"Ah!" She looks up, heart wrenchingly young again. "I am Aliza."

"Come on then, Miss Aliza," he says, letting go the shawl, offering her his arm again. "Let's get outta here."

She nods, tucking her hand under his arm, letting the shawl fall across the body below them. Steve briskly helps her over the former Hydra guard, doing his best to pretend they didn't just clamber over what used to be a person, holding her gaze and smiling hopefully, and as they hurry together towards the door, she finally smiles back.

** * ** 

Outside they find maybe two hundred freed prisoners huddling together as Sergeant Barnes stalks towards them, still wearing his hunting face. At least when Bucky spots Steve he thaws into a bright grin, and as Aliza dashes off towards her fellows Steve hurries to Bucky's side, raising his crispest salute.

Bucky reaches for him, fingers pausing above his bruised cheek, the air eddying between them like a whispering kiss; he reaches further and squeezes Steve's shoulder, just once, but it feels like a medal. "Eight minutes left on the nose," Bucky comments, but his sparkling eyes say so much more. "We need to get them down there," with a wave to east-southeast, "Dugan and Morita've secured a spot-- huh."

Steve belatedly realizes he heard a shot. The warm color drains from Bucky's face, leaving him moonlight-pale. "Ow," he says mildly, lifting a hand to his shoulder, a dark patch spreading wet across his thick blue jacket. Bucky blinks and looks towards the crowd, his eyes narrowing, and Steve stops staring frozenly at him, follows his gaze and looks too, towards the rising shrieks.

A man stands among the civilians, too clean and too neat and aiming a pistol, swaying on his feet as the women rush back in from where they recoiled, screaming at him, slapping and clawing at his arms. Face contorting, he struggles against their hands until the air cracks and his head snaps back, a little dark spray flying up as he collapses amidst the angry women.

Bucky's holstering his sidearm. Bucky's trembling, getting heavier, which is how Steve realizes he has both hands on him, pressed to his arm and side. Bucky looks right at Steve, smiling gently, and murmurs, "Hey --" before his knees buckle. Steve follows him down, tipping him backwards, and Bucky hits the ground, eyes fallen shut, slack face emptier than sleep. 

"Sarge," Steve hears himself saying, his voice high and thin, his hands pressing uselessly on the hot wet spot spreading on Bucky's shoulder. "Sarge, Sergeant Barnes, Bucky, stay with me, _come on_ \--" There's a flutter around him, a waft of sweetish sweaty warmth, and dozens of bodies press around them, dozens of small hands pat Bucky all down his uninjured arm and flanks and legs as someone shoves a square of white cloth into Steve's hold. Bucky coughs a little, at least still breathing. Steve looks up and sees Aliza kneeling beside him, reaching one hand behind her for another handkerchief as she squeezes his fingers with the other.

She nods, surrounded by the crowd of women and children lending their warmth, and Steve nods back. Pressing the handkerchief to Bucky's shoulder, he fills his lungs and barks, "Down the hill, double time, my fellow soldiers expect us. Who can help me carry the Sergeant?"

Sure arms reach out from all around, men and women cradle Bucky securely, Aliza and a matronly woman beside her support his head. One hand pressing the wadded cloth to Bucky's shoulder and the other beneath his bicep as a young man steadies his elbow, Steve calls out, "One, two, three, lift!" and they gather Bucky up on a raft of arms. "Follow us!" Steve orders the crowd, and they do, streaming down the slope behind him and Bucky's bearers.

They reach the secured spot, and Dugan and Morita hiss and swear when they see Bucky limp in a many-armed hold, rushing forward to help lower him to the ground. But when the factory lights up the night sky with its destruction and everyone sighs under its roar, Steve tears his gaze from Bucky's still face to glance around and realizes every single rescued prisoner made it down with them.

As Dum Dum noisily starts organizing the crowd and Morita crouches beside them rummaging in his medic's kit, Steve kneels by Bucky's head and whispers, "We got them all out, Sarge." Leaning in close, he keeps pressure on the wound, keeps Bucky warm. keeps on talking. "We made it out. Now you'd fucking well better."

The matronly lady silently settles beside Steve, sharing his watch, her hand full of cloth scraps; Aliza slumps under her other arm and quietly starts crying. Steve presses down on the heat escaping beneath his hands and watches Bucky breathe. It's probably a trick of the light or a comforting lie told by his heart, but for a moment he almost thinks he sees Bucky's unconscious face crease with a smile.


End file.
